


Sunny Boyfriend (and personality)

by scratchedandinked



Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020! [2]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ace writer, Canon Asexual Character, Established Relationship, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Acephobia, Jonathan Sims is a SAP, M/M, The hurt is two-fold in both little physical and little emotional, blood mention, but the comfort is all fluff, post-everything (but everyone is alive!), treating injuries (but nothing major)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-25
Updated: 2020-08-25
Packaged: 2021-03-06 21:00:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,615
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26105353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scratchedandinked/pseuds/scratchedandinked
Summary: Martin breaks one of his favorite mugs-- a gift from Jon. While trying to soothe Martin's anxiety (and patch up his hand), Jon tries to articulate every way in which that mug is only one small articulation of how he feels for Martin; how said mug was a thank you to Martin for being exactly who he is.[Hurt/Comfort Week prompts: treating/distracting from injuries, confession, fear]
Relationships: Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Series: TMA Hurt/Comfort Week 2020! [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1893754
Comments: 13
Kudos: 153





	Sunny Boyfriend (and personality)

**Author's Note:**

> Jon's internalized acephobia experience is based on my own feelings/experiences and is not meant to be making sweeping generalizations about all ace people and how they understand (or don't, actually) social cues/interactions/etc!
> 
> Also, the title is based off The Monkees track ["Sunny Girlfriend"](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Gq_UgHBbQhU) which DEFINITELY plays in Jon's head every time he looks at Martin. No critique taken.
> 
> Enjoy day 2 of HC week!

“Mother _fucker_ that _hurts_.”

Jon sat upright on the couch quickly, his back twinging with pain as he twisted around and faced the kitchen—and string of swearing coming over the rushing faucet. “Martin? Is everything alright?”

“Yes! Yes, I’m _fine_!” Martin spoke through clenched teeth. “Water was just too hot— _don’t_ Know anything. I’m _fine_.”

“You sound like you’re really hurt, Martin. I’m getting up.” Jon had to announce his departure from the couch as if to encourage his muscles to move faster—and complain a _little_ less.

All Jon’s healing _properties_ (as Martin liked to call them, because saying his boyfriend had healing powers was apparently the line into _Too Weird_ for him) were great to eliminate injury, but nothing to soothe lasting aches and pains. Jon’s joints sounded like sand in a gearbox and his back needed at least a thirty-minute warning before he got out of bed in the morning.

But Jon was fully prepared to _run_ into the kitchen at the sound of Martin’s gritted muttering.

“No—Jon, sit back down. It’s not a big deal.” Martin was very obviously hiding his hand in the kitchen sink, trying to turn his back on Jon. “Just dropped a mug.”

“You said the water was too hot.”

“Yeah, and why do you think I _dropped_ the mug?” Martin snapped.

“Martin, let me see it—what if you need stitches?”

“I don’t _need_ —” Martin inhaled sharply, cutting himself off before he raised his voice. Jon stood at the end of the far counter, unsure if he should be surprised by the outburst or comforted that Martin had enough energy—and blood—to still _be_ angry at him. “I broke the mug you bought me when we first started going out…”

“Oh, _Martin_.” Jon pushed off the counter to get himself over to Martin. Jon slid his arm across Martin’s shoulders and rested his temple against Martin’s. “I’ll buy you a new one if you want. I—I much rather I date a man with all of his fingers than one that keeps dishware— _Jesus Christ_ , Martin! Is that your _blood_?”

“What? No.” Martin shifted and pushed Jon off of him, cutting off his view. Jon resisted Seeing in other ways. “I told you, it’s not that bad.”

“Martin, that sink is red.”

“It’s because the water is running.”

“Martin!”

“I _said_ I’m fine.”

“Yes, _saying_ and _lying_ can be synonymous!” Jon cried, grabbing his shoulder and trying to inch Martin aside. His aches had warmed up from the excitement and movement and he was able to gain a little leverage, finally getting Martin to stand beside him again.

Technically, Martin was correct: the sink looked to be _coated_ in Martin’s blood, but it was from Martin trying to wash his blood down the drain _with_ his cut hand, only getting more blood into the water being splashed around. Martin had a drying towel pressed against his palm, and the blood stain wasn’t visible from where Jon was standing; it wasn’t gushing nor were any fingers severed. At the bottom of the sink, Martin’s mug was in five different pieces, all of varying sizes and mostly unsalvageable. The ceramic had been painted sky blue, green sprouts of grass sitting along the bottom, and dots of red and yellow wildflowers speckled it all the way around and up the handle. In the hot water, the clouds had risen out of the paint and filled the sky shapes to ponder over every morning cuppa.

Jon had found the mug out in a shop and was reminded immediately of Martin, for a reason he didn’t quite understand but assumed had something to do with new love, able to be peeled back and explored. Later, sitting under the same countryside sky—down to the cloud shapes—Jon understood that, actually, the mug had found him. The same way that he liked to think Martin found _him_. Had his eyes open enough to genuinely look at the world and want to take it in, want to help it, want to love it. Unlike Jon, who had only recently remembered that he could, too, do that. That he _wanted_ to do that.

“Please let me see your hand, Martin.” Jon said, reaching into the sink. “Let me look at you.”

“I can wrap it myself. I broke your gift, the least I can do is—”

“Martin, come on.” Jon tugged on his wrist and pulled his hands from the sink. “Let me see.”

Jon pulled the towel away slowly, seeing the sticky clots of drying blood over Martin’s hand. There were only two cuts, thankfully: one along his palm, and the other in the curve of his fingers. The two cuts matched exactly, from Jon’s quick assessment, where the largest crack in the mug would’ve been when it was resting—and breaking— in Martin’s hand.

“I told you it’s not that bad.” Martin said defiantly, although he leaned his head on Jon’s shoulder with a sigh. “I was just clumsy.”

“You’re literally covering the kitchen in blood.”

“And— _you_ started reciting the history of one of our thrift dishes the other day! Weird stuff occurs here. That’s just what _happens_.” Martin defended himself with a laugh, still letting Jon worry his fingers over the cuts, trying to see how deep they were.

“The Eye apparently was fascinated with the Paulson Family History that landed that plate at that flea market, and thus our kitchen. _You_ are making _my_ kitchen sink into a biohazard.”

“Biohazard?” Martin echoed. “You have your _rib_ in your desk in the other room, Jon. _That’s_ a—you know what? I’m not going to win this argument, am I?”

Jon patted Martin’s hand. “No.”

“Fine.”

Jon turned on the faucet and eased Martin’s hand under the warm water. “Let me get some bandages, alright? _Don’t_ go anywhere.” He pointed at Martin with semi-sternness before heading for the first aid kit.

“It’s not like you could catch me!” Martin called after Jon.

“Doesn’t mean I wouldn’t know where you are.” Jon laughed, opening the bathroom cabinets to begin digging around.

Buried under the drain cleaner and extra towels was a white container very finely labeled “ _first aid: minor injury_ ” in Tim’s handwriting; his housewarming gift for them was the _hilarious_ dual package of a “minor” and “major” first aid kit. The second kit was in the hall closet, containing a new set of tools which Jon and Martin used to assemble furniture—and _not_ perform amateur surgery as per suggested by the gift-giver.

Jon grabbed the container and an extra hand towel and headed back to the kitchen. Somehow, by some miracle of stubbornness, Martin hadn’t moved. Although he had turned off the water and was drying his hand with a clean paper towel.

“Don’t tell Tim.” Jon said, smiling. Even though he laughed in return, Jon immediately could note a damper to Martin’s mood. His smile was stiff and the continued giggle sounded more like the echo of one short cough rather than an ongoing roll of laughter. “Does it hurt that badly?”

“What? No. No. It doesn’t hurt. I’m—”

“If you say _fine_ one more time, I will absolutely make you sleep on the couch.” Jon said shortly, clacking the plastic kit down on the counter top. “What’s the matter? I-I’m not mad about the blood or any of it, really, Martin. I’m worried about you.”

“I _know_ , but I love that mug. It’s my favorite.”

“Let me buy you a new one then. I haven’t gotten you a mug since… since we moved in! It can be a home-owning gift. Or maybe a five-year anniversary gift—I’ll give it to you early. So it’ll _almost_ be like a surprise.” Jon rifled through the kit for some triple antibiotic. He twisted the cap off and placed it beside the stained towel. “How about that?”

“But… You seemed so proud to be giving it to me—I couldn’t tell if it was because you were proud of the mug itself or… the fact you were giving a gift to someone. I-It was so _perplexing_ and I was so… God, I was so taken by _it_ and _you_. I loved it so much.”

Jon had been proud of himself over more than the feat of finding such a perfectly apropos and endearing gift for Martin. Maybe pride wasn’t the right word, but Jon liked it better than any self-degrading alternatives. Before he’d thought: _anxious, clingy, awkward, unsettling, over-the-top, out-of-touch, wrong—_

“Did I ever tell you what I thought of you when we first met… And I mean _really_ met, like, registered that we were two people that weren’t just working in the same place.” Jon asked, gently dabbing Martin’s cuts with the ointment.

“Do I _want_ to hear it?”

“I was _terrified_ of you, Martin.” Jon laughed. It was ridiculous in reality, Jon knew that, but it was still a bit hard to fully believe.

“Me? Terri— _you_? How? I mean, sure, I was a little scared of you but… You at least signed my checks. A-And, you know, reported back on my work to Elias. _That’s_ scary!” Martin said. “Don’t try to make me feel better—”

“No, I’m being serious.” Jon stopped himself from laughing, not wanting it to sound like a creation meant for distraction. “You were so nice to me… I literally didn’t know what to do with it. A-And I know I was _grumpy_ or _whatever_ Tim calls me but I genuinely wasn’t sure how to respond to you simply being _nice_.

“It’s not that I don’t know _how_ —I’m not an _alien_ , but… I liked you and so far, at that point, I hadn’t quite figured out to respond to people being nice to me— _flirting_ , if we want to call it what it is—without getting myself tangled into things that I don’t quite understand.” Jon said. The precision to which he was applying the medicine to Martin’s hands was a clear sign of his discomfort, but Martin eased his hand closer to Jon, letting him.

“You were scared of me?”

“Not _scared_ —in the way we understand fear now— but I didn’t know what you wanted.”

“I didn’t want anything.” Martin said quickly. His other hand reached for Jon’s elbow, trying to hold him without interrupting his work.

“I know that. I do—and I did, I think. But before, and for most of my life, I’ve missed so many ‘obvious’ cues and accepted gestures from people that only _wanted_ things from me. I-I didn’t know that when the same girl drives you home after class that she may think you want to _park_ her car… Or, getting drinks with a friend in a thesis cohort means that your willingness to be drunk near said friend means that you are willing to be compromised _with said friend…_ Or I _did_ but thought it would clearer; that I would know when those silently messages were being sent. Apparently I didn’t… I don’t.

“I was so out of touch of how my actions were perceived by others. I felt… distance with my own voice and body and relationships with others. I felt like I kept getting it wrong! God, I just wanted to have friends—maybe even a _partner_ or something equally as crazy—and everything felt like I was catching up. I was collecting _data_ to better try and acclimate and accommodate and assimilate to everyone else and what they’ve projected onto me.” Jon stopped, carefully placing his hand in Martin’s, trying to avoid most of his cut covering. “And after Georgie— breaking up with someone and having to re-calibrate, you know?—I was so out of touch but _you_ felt real. I had this feeling that you were just being nice—but what if I was wrong and…”

“And I had other ideas...”

“And you were just being nice to _get_ _somewhere_.”

“Jon,” Martin curled his finger’s around Jon’s hand, squeezing it tightly. Jon didn’t even try to protect his first aid work. “I hope you don’t feel that way now.”

“No! Of course not. Hence the mug, actually.” Jon looked at it, cracked in the sink, and felt the same mislabeled _pride_ again. “I knew what I was saying with it— _socially_ , you know? It was a very clear ‘ _I think and care about you. And I love you. And this beautiful sunny day reminds **me** of **you** ’_—and I was confident and _in-touch_ enough to know that. I loved somebody that was _listening_ to the things I did and wouldn’t ask for the _one thing_ that I couldn’t give him.”

“So that mug represented the first time you trusted someone in a very long time,” Martin said, his voice trembling. “And I broke it?”

“No! Martin, forget about the damn—I bought us a _house_. That is the new mug—I bought you a house with as many windows and open space as I could so you were never too isolated, could never feel too alone. I made sure I found us a house that has a huge backyard for _whatever_ we do later in life—gardening, kids, dogs, _whatever_. Made sure it’s got enough shelves for all your books and poetry notebooks you _won’t_ let me read—and promise I'll never touch. I got a place with space to keep them safely. Hell, I called every realtor and asked for the complete history—esoteric and not—of this house, land, builders, architects, neighbors, and weather patterns… Martin, I got a house for you— _with you_ —because you aren’t asking me for anything, but I want to give you _everything_.” Jon squeezed Martin’s hand and pulled himself closer to him. “I’m not scared of you anymore, but I am scared of not knowing how to properly tell you how _much_ I care about you.”

“You tell me just fine.” Martin’s bottom lip trembled as he spoke, his smile wobbling. “Although I think jumping from a mug to a house is bit dramatic.” He laughed wetly, sniffling. “You could’ve just… I don’t know? Got some new tea towels or something.”

“No, no. The house was the only way.” Jon was only half kidding. “I had to buy you a house so you could… _bleed_ all over it.”

“Oh, shut up, you’re ruining it!”

“What? My _own_ romantic gesture?” Jon released Martin’s hand to pretend to push him back—but not daring make any sudden movements when Martin was already hurt. “Well, now that actually sounds about right…” Jon reached for Martin again, pulling him in closer by his sleeve.

“Thank you for the house.”

“Thank you for agreeing to live in it with me.” Jon said before kissing Martin slowly, lightly.

“Sure beats taking your bed in the archive.”

“God,” Jon groaned, letting his head fall and rest on Martin’s shoulder. He cradled Martin’s hand between them, smiling. “at least _now_ I can fit in my own bed _with you_.”

Laughing, Martin leaned his head against Jon’s, and let the tension melt from his shoulders. He sighed, without any of the expected audible weight, as Jon turned his hand over. They shared the quiet, the stillness, of just _knowing_ exactly how lucky they were—well, maybe that was just Jon's feeling. He hoped Martin felt, above all else, content and safe. It's the least Jon could do; Martin was _his_ home, regardless of address.

“Also," Jon said, lifting his head. "I _think_ couch is also big enough to fit both of us.”

"You think?" Martin hummed, punctuating his question with a short kiss.

“The Eye can't seem to Know it... Hm. Better finish wrapping you up and test my theory."


End file.
